


how fortuitous

by voksen



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Implied Incest, Interspecies, Power Play, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-28
Updated: 2012-01-28
Packaged: 2017-10-30 06:34:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/328829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voksen/pseuds/voksen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lady Prestor experiments with nonmagical ways of getting under Bolvar Fordragon's skin. Blink-and-you'll-miss-it background Nefarian/Onyxia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	how fortuitous

"...Katrana," he murmurs, and she looks back over her shoulder: he's lying in a jumbled mess on the bed, hair wild, mouth hanging open like a fresh mud snapper. 

He's even less attractive than he normally is. "Lady Prestor," she reminds him sharply, but despite her thoughts, her irritation at the familiarity, there's less heat in her words than there might have been. The last few minutes had been messy and too quick and nothing in comparison to what she's used to, but they had still been better than nothing at all - and the Mountain is too far away to fly off to without excuse. Idly, unthinkingly, she smooths her own hair back, lets her hands run down over her naked breasts, waist, stomach. They still tingle interestingly, matching the strangely pleasant soreness inside her.

Bolvar moves on the bed and her attention snaps back to him, but he's only untangling himself from the sheets. "Lady Prestor," he echoes, though his voice is uncertain, the set of his coarse features just a little too doubtful for her taste.

 _Mortals_ , Onyxia thinks with vague disgust, and shifts her borrowed body's hips just slightly. There's a trickle of wetness down the inside of her thigh as his seed spills out of her and his attention is suddenly hers again, without even a tiny push of magic. "Come," she says, and smiles tightly as he manages with an obvious struggle to drag his eyes from her cunt up to her face, "help me dress. We mustn't be late to attend His Majesty."

Highlord Fordragon makes a terrible lady's maid. His hands are too rough, too callused from years of weapons work; they catch on the delicate, textured black silk of her shift as he retrieves it from the floor where she had discarded it earlier and brings it to her, then hesitates.

"Well?" she asks, lifting an eyebrow. He seems about to speak, but swallows the words back, awkwardly settling the shift over her head and arms. It slithers down to cover her in a cool rush, sliding over still-sensitive skin. Fine clothes are definitely the best part of this wretched disguise, she thinks, and opens her eyes to Bolvar standing uncertainly in front of her. His cock is stiffening again as he looks at her, and she has to conceal her amusement. _Humans._

She lets him watch her for a moment more, then clears her throat. He jerks to attention, noble soldier of the Light that he is, and almost blushes - and oh, she could laugh aloud from how delicious it is that he's binding himself so willingly, so freely to her without even a claw's worth of work on her part. When she turns her efforts from the noblemen to the poor widowed King himself, will it be even easier?

"My robe." Onyxia fills her tone with impatience she doesn't quite feel and sees his cheeks redden further, his cock grow thicker even as some of the self-awareness comes back into his face and he draws himself up, squares his shoulders.

"Lady Prestor," he begins, but she reaches up, startling him into silence, and lays her finger on his lips, running it slowly across them, her long, polished nail catching on his lower lip and pulling it slightly downwards before brushing her hand sideways across the rough brown thatch of his beard.

"My robe," she says again, looking into his eyes - and just that; she doesn't put any power into it, no hint of her true self; only what Katrana Prestor could have done were she the noble lady she seemed and no more.

Bolvar swallows hard again, turns his face into her hand, kisses her palm. It sends a strange thrill through her, intensifying the lingering ache in the pit of her stomach into something present and real. "Yes, my Lady," he whispers. The movement of his lips against her skin feels better than it has any right to.

Neither, however, is as good as watching him obey her. Her robe is more substantial than the shift, but still almost nothing in his big hands; she smiles slowly as he brings it back to her, brushing wrinkles from it on the way. Turning, she gives him her back; there's a short pause, a rustle of fabric, and he sorts it out, settling the robe on her shoulders and putting his arms around her to fasten it in the front. She leans into him deliberately; the press of his cock against the small of her back is blunted by the double layer of cloth between them, but his breath quickens above her ear and his hands fumble twice at the concealed catch of her robe before he manages to secure it.

When it's settled, he flattens his hands against her breasts, stroking his fingertips across her nipples with surprising gentleness for how clumsy he is, and she's suddenly aware that the wetness between her legs is not only _his_. With a slight toss of her head to settle her hair completely into presentability, she pulls away from his grasp and turns, moving to the door. When she reaches it, she looks back; he's standing where she left him, still naked, the tiniest bit of confusion and uncertainty creeping back into his face. By his side, his hand curls slightly, twitches towards his cock as if he desperately wants to touch it and isn't sure if he's allowed to do so. It pleases her, but not enough to make her forget herself.

"We will not be late," she says again, and opens the door, glancing out; the hallway is empty, with no one to see her leaving the Highlord's rooms. Stepping out, she turns back once more, briefly. "I expect you can clothe yourself in time."

 

Bolvar Fordragon is two minutes late to the King's council; he arrives near-winded with his cloak askew over his armor. Varian looks at him oddly as Bolvar takes his seat, muttering apologies.

Smiling almost demurely, Onyxia folds her hands in her lap.


End file.
